


and this might turn and wind up just the way we'd dreamed

by the_everqueen



Series: songs for bitter children [2]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alexander Hamilton is George Washington's Biological Son, M/M, Wise Lafayette, the Gay Trio goes on a picnic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-26
Updated: 2017-06-26
Packaged: 2018-11-19 10:37:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11311647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_everqueen/pseuds/the_everqueen
Summary: Laf sighs. “You two are boring,” he declares loudly, in French. “You need some liquor in you.”“Bring some then,” John says in an absent way, scribbling at his letter.“Don’t give him ideas —” and it’s too late, Alex looks up in time to catch the gleam in Laf’s eyes. He’s going to pay for that later, in some horrible manner that may or may not involve the cheap lamp oil Tilghman hordes like an expensive sherry.





	and this might turn and wind up just the way we'd dreamed

**Author's Note:**

> herowndeliverance requested the Gay Trio. thanks to her and Swan for their encouragement <3

Alex is smart, he knows that. It doesn’t make him feel less stupid on the subject of John Laurens.

He can’t figure the man out. Son of the president of Congress, from South Carolina but studied in Geneva, seeking a position as aide-de-camp to Washington: on paper Laurens seemed easy to dismiss as just another spoiled kid with an influential father, useful for his connections but not much else. In person, however, he’s something else. He says “yessir” with crisp politeness but curses under his breath with lazy vowels; he speaks of freedom and glory and their cause in tones of reverence, eyes shining; he works without complaint, expression grim and determined as he copies letters in his quick, slanting scrawl. 

And for some reason he’s determined to become Alex’s friend. Which makes no sense. Yeah, they share a room, but that just means being civil and blowing out the candle when the other wants to sleep. After all, Alex isn’t close to Tench or Harrison since they’ve slept in the same bed. It’s not as though getting close to Alex would gain John any sort of special favor from His Excellency, either, because lately Washington spends more time snapping at Alex than giving him assignments outside of paperwork. But then John tries to engage Alex in conversations, his smile bright and earnest, and he stays in the workroom when everyone besides Alex has gone to bed, reading or sketching in the dim candlelight, and he must  _ want _ something, except — 

“I don’t know what he wants.”

Lafayette gives him a curious look. “Who?”

Alex realizes he’s spoken out loud. Flushing, he shoves a spoonful of stew into his mouth to avoid giving an immediate answer. It’s more weak gravy than meat, gone cold since he’s been staring into space. He swallows. “The newest member of our family.”

Laf’s face brightens. “Monsieur Laurens!”

“Lieutenant Colonel,” Alex corrects. “Well, as soon as he accepts the title.” 

He glances around the workroom. They are alone: the other aides took their supper outside, begging a respite in the warm summer evening, while Alex ignored his portion in favor of finishing another letter. Laf stayed with him — he’s taken to harassing Alex about forgetting to eat and getting enough sleep. Mother hen. As though Alex can’t take care of himself.

Or maybe it’s because they’re both orphans and outsiders, and who else better understands what it means to be alone?

“I like this John Laurens,” Laf declares. “His French is not perfect, but he’s very polite.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve fallen for his Southern charm.”

“We talked about his time spent in Europe,” Laf continues, as though Alex hadn’t spoken. “He came to the war from across the Atlantic, like me, because it inspired him, your revolution.” Then he frowns. “Why do you think he wants something?”

Alex shakes his head. “Because he’s… nice.”

When he doesn’t explain further, Laf asks, “What is wrong with that? I am nice.”

“Yeah, but you’re  _ you. _ ”

“And what does that mean?”

“When you first got here, you kissed Washington on the cheek. You’re basically a lap dog until someone puts a bayonet in your hands.” Alex bumps his shoulder to make clear he’s teasing. “It’s all right, though. So long as we win you’ll go down as our favorite fighting Frenchman.”

“John is not insincere.”

“No, he’s just —” Alex hesitates. He can’t find the word to explain his frustration, and he refuses to admit that Laurens might be beyond him. “He keeps trying to talk to me. Outside of work.”

Laf rolls his eyes. “How awful. It’s not as though you spend every waking moment talking about the ancients and financial systems. Having a conversation partner would be so inconvenient.”

He flushes. “I don’t need —”

Laurens ducks inside the tent, laughing at something one of the aides outside has shouted, and Alex shuts his mouth. “Hamilton, you didn’t join us for supper.” Laurens slides into the seat next to him, gives him a friendly smile. “You could take a break, get some sun.”

Alex got enough sun back in the islands to last a lifetime. But he can’t say that or else Laurens might ask questions he doesn’t feel like answering. He picks up his quill and returns to the thing he was writing earlier. Another plea for Congress to send them additional supplies. “Someone has to finish these papers, or else we’ll be behind.”

John’s expression shutters. Laf makes a displeased noise.

Alex ignores them.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Laurens says. He makes no move to actually leave, though; instead, he shuffles around for a blank piece of paper and dips his own quill. Alex sneaks a glance at the page.  _ My dearest father… _

Something in his chest tightens. Well, they can’t all rely on their papas to support them. 

Laf is giving him a Look — Alex can feel it prickling the hairs on his neck. He stubbornly ignores it. Washington ordered him to share a room with Laurens and explain the duties expected of him, he didn’t say Alex had to court the man. 

Laf sighs. “You two are boring,” he declares loudly, in French. “You need some liquor in you.”

“Bring some then,” John says in an absent way, scribbling at his letter.

“Don’t give him ideas —” and it’s too late, Alex looks up in time to catch the gleam in Laf’s eyes. He’s going to pay for that later, in some horrible manner that may or may not involve the cheap lamp oil Tilghman hordes like an expensive sherry. 

“I am going to find better company,” Laf says, pushing up from his chair and leaning over the table to brush an exaggerated kiss to Alex’s head. Alex swats at him. “Good evening, gentlemen.”

When he glances over again, Laurens is staring at him, expression unreadable.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Laurens looks down at his paper, his cheek flushing pink and making his freckles stand out. 

Alex watches him for a long second before returning to his own work. 

 

“The General has ordered you to take a break.”

Alex hums. “Did the British surrender while I was unaware?”

Laf whines, actually  _ whines _ . Sometimes Alex forgets Laf is younger than him; moments like this the reminder grates on him. “You work too hard, you are going to make yourself sick.”

It’s noon, and Alex came into the workroom this morning to letters from Congress that stated, in essence,  _ suck it up _ , and several soldiers deserted overnight, and he hasn’t slept since the hurricane and he is tired. “Maybe you’ve forgotten, but there is a war going on.”

“Alexander —”

“If the General wants me to rest so badly, he can give the order in person.”

“I wasn’t aware I needed to command you to rest.” Washington’s voice behind him makes Alex jump, upsetting his inkwell. He scrambles to right it and salvage his copied letter. Lost cause: the far corner is dripping with black. He crumples the paper into a ball and lobs it viciously across the tent. “I’m fine, sir.”

Washington raises an eyebrow.

The other aides have paused in their work to watch. Alex grits his teeth. He can manage the work, he doesn’t need to be parented. “I. Am. Fine.” Then, so as not to sound disrespectful, he tacks on, “Your Excellency.”

“Son,” Washington says, “take the afternoon off. You’re no use to me if you can’t think straight. Tilghman can cover for you while you’re out.”

Right. Of course. No need to keep Alex around if he’s not useful. Just replace him with Tench until he can form a cohesive sentence again. He gathers his papers and drops them on Tench’s pile, stalks out of the tent without waiting for further dismissal.

Laf follows at his heels like a puppy. “Don’t look so sad, you’ll be back at your papers tonight.”

“Did you plan this?”

“I simply mentioned to General Washington —”

“Don’t.” Alex stops short. He isn’t even sure where he’s going. “You shouldn’t — the General has enough on his mind. He doesn’t need to be concerned about me.”

“It’s only lunch.”

“What?”

Before he can answer, John Laurens comes alongside them, a pack slung over his shoulder. At Alex’s stare, he shrugs, apologetic, and his gaze flickers to Laf. Not his idea. Laf starts walking along the little trail that leads away from camp, down to the river; he throws an arm around Laurens’s shoulders, prattling on about his estate back in France.

Alex walks behind them and plots murder.

Laf stops at a shaded spot near the water, digs around in the pack Laurens brought, and pulls out a blanket for them to sit on. “Voíla,” he says, triumphant. 

Laurens flops down on the blanket. “You promised food.”

“Didn’t you pack the bag?” Alex asks, settling on his own corner.

He shakes his head. “I’m just the beast of burden.”

Laf tosses him a piece of salt pork. 

“Would to God we had died in the land of Egypt.” Alex moves too late to dodge the piece of hardtack Laf throws at him, and it hits him in the mouth. “I don’t understand why you felt the need to drag us from important work to eat our daily rations. I can chew stale bread and write a letter at the same time!”

“Would to God we were all so gifted,” Laf says, drily. “Besides, would you want to share  _ this _ with the rest of the family?” And he pulls out a bottle of something Alex knows must be expensive, something better than Tilghman’s usual swill. Alex grabs for it, and Laf leans out of reach. “Tsk, maybe you don’t deserve it.”

Laurens tackles him, snatches the wine and uncorks it. He takes a long gulp straight from the bottle. “Shit, this is good.”

Laf steals it back. “Of course, I would not give my friends anything less than that watered-down piss you drink in the taverns.”

“So it’s not piss. That’s a ringing endorsement.” Alex snags the bottle, though Laf doesn’t bother fighting him for it, and swallows some. He can’t tell the difference, not really, but he hums over the taste and takes another drink. “Not piss,” he repeats.

“Silver tongue.” Laf rolls his eyes. 

“You got Laurens out here with the promise of food, is that it? We’re gonna eat rations and drink fancy wine?”

“You running your mouth was a given.” 

“He brought a chessboard,” Laurens offers, around a mouthful of salt pork.

Alex raises his eyebrows. “He forgot his arithmetic, is what he did. How are three people supposed to play chess?”

“Just for that, you can watch.” Laf unfolds the board, arranges the pieces with care. “Which would you like to be, John?”

“Black.”

“Kick his ass,” Alex tells Laurens, scooting closer to get a better view of the board. “Kick his ass and I’ll play you next.”

John grins. “You’re on.”

He does manage to beat Laf, though it takes a while: in part because Laf is a better chess player than he lets on, and also because they drink most of the wine over the course of the game. Alex watches and complains about Congress until the game narrows down to the last few moves, and then he goes quiet, observing John’s choice of moves. He lost his pawns and both rooks in the slaughter early on, and he ends up cornering Laf’s king between his queen and bishop. As a congratulations, Alex hands him the wine bottle, and John downs the last of it.

“My turn.”

John laughs into his shoulder, neck and face flushed red. Lightweight. Although maybe Alex isn’t one to talk, because he stumbles as he gets up to trade places with Laf. He takes off his jacket.  The afternoon is warm, the shade from the trees doing little more than dappling their blanket with shadows. A piece of hair has come undone from his queue and sticks to his neck. 

“Are you going to make a move or not?”

Alex startles. John has moved one pawn forward, a challenge. 

Laf is curled asleep on the blanket like an infant.

Alex moves a pawn. Doesn’t care which one.

The pleasant haze fades as the game gets serious. John plays chess like slashing a sword on the battlefield, quick and ruthless and costing lives, a pile of sacrificed pawns on Alex’s side, but he’s not  _ thoughtless _ . There’s a direction to him, a linear focus pulling him through the worst losses. Alex can’t see the line until it’s too late, and then spends several minutes taking out as many of John’s pieces as he can manage while he dodges the inevitable.

“Checkmate,” John says, tipping his king. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you quiet for so long.”

“I do sleep. Sometimes.”

“You snore.”

Alex swats at him and John laughs. He shucks off his own coat, loosens his cravat. “S’ warm.”

“Aren’t you used to Southern heat?”

“Humid,” John agrees. He closes his eyes and leans back on his elbows, freckled throat bared to the sky. “Not so bad, though, there’s — water, yeah? We had a lake near the house. I used to skip Latin lessons to go for a swim.”

Alex thinks about heat and long summer days and the mystery of John Laurens. Well. He isn’t allowed to work at his papers, but maybe that gives him time to apply his mind to other studies. He kicks off his boots, nudges Laf with his heel. “You a good swimmer?”

John grins and races him to the river.

**Author's Note:**

> Hamilton's famous "cold in my professions" letter to Laurens (April 1779) insinuates that John hadn't officially accepted the rank of Lieutenant Colo. when he joined Washington's staff (though he held its privileges, in effect), hence the remark here
> 
> Alex's "would to God" statement is taken from Exodus 16:3 
> 
> the chess game was inspired by Ossapher's excellent fic "Chessmaster" (go read it!)
> 
> title from Radical Face's "We're on Our Way," which pretty much sums up the Gay Trio in this verse
> 
> i'm on tumblr @the-everqueen, feel free to drop in and chat


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